Fifty-Six: May You Stay Lucid Even in Your Dreams

Lilith returned to her dorm with doubt clinging like mist.

The Little White Dragon and Joseph had pored over her star chart for half a day. The learned elf scholar stacked authoritative glossaries of Old Draconic like stone tablets. Still, that line yielded no hidden meaning.

“It should be literal.” Joseph finally closed his book after another hour past dawn. He stood and rubbed eyes shadowed the color of bruises.

“So what now? Just leave it?” Fatigue settled over Lilith like dusk. The Little White Dragon’s excitement had burned out; the long, tight focus left her world gauzy, and she had to blink hard to keep the elf scholar from blurring.

“Mm. Let’s stop wasting time on it. We don’t have another way.” He nodded, a miner admitting there’s no more ore to haul. “Miss Lilith, go rest. I need a nap too.”

“You’ve worked hard.” She dipped her head. The elf had kept vigil beside her all night like a lamp in a quiet hall; his attention was more scattered than hers now, and rest would be kinder than stubbornness.

“Here. Take this.” As Lilith packed up to leave, Joseph stopped her. He dropped a ring of keys into her palm like cold coins. “These open my lab. I won’t have time every night. If you need to study, come use the equipment. You remember my office—if you hit a problem and I’m not here, find me there.”

“Got it. Thank you.”

“No need. I honor anyone who digs for truth with both hands. Go sleep.”

“Phew, I’m beat.” By the time Lilith pushed into her dorm, it was past ten. The Little White Dragon shut the door and flopped onto the bed with a soft thud, her small body turning boneless, even forgetting the clothes on her back.

In her last flicker of awareness, she kicked off little leather boots and white socks. Then she cocooned herself in her blue-and-white cloak and sank into sleep like a pebble into deep water.

In the dream, the little dragon opened her eyes to that old slate-gray world. Any time gods got involved, the stage was always this same austere backdrop; familiarity wrapped around it like a worn robe.

Moving like someone who knew the path by heart, Lilith searched the gray for who had come today. It didn’t take long to catch a familiar silhouette—a white figure shaped exactly like her. Again? Was it the Star Canvas?

She quickened her steps. The goddess—her mirror—saw her approach and waved, delighted, like a moon greeting its reflection.

“That line on my chart—it was you, right?” Lilith asked.

“Yep. I’m the Star Canvas itself, the real thing,” she said, owning it without flinching. “If I want to talk to you, that was the simplest way.”

“I see.” Lilith accepted it with a calm face. “So why did you call me today?”

“Huh. I thought you’d ask your big question first.” The Star Canvas looked at the Little White Dragon’s even expression, curious as a cat in sunlight.

“You called me, so you go first.”

“You sure you won’t?” She lifted a brow like a lifted curtain.

“…”

“What’s up with your belly?” Lilith pointed at the small swell.

“Oh, that. Nothing serious.” The Star Canvas raked her fingers through her hair, embarrassed. “The other night, Mali slipped under my covers at midnight, so now it’s like this.”

“…” Lilith felt foolish the moment the words left her mouth, like tossing a pebble and hitting herself in the foot.

“Fine, fine, I’ll talk.” The Star Canvas shook off the awkwardness, then cut off Lilith’s brewing complaint with a raised hand. “Why did you suddenly start watching the Star Canvas again?”

“I’m an Astrologer. Why shouldn’t I?” Lilith blinked, puzzled, her voice flat as still water.

“You do remember!” She tapped a finger to Lilith’s forehead, puffed up with indignation like a sparrow. “Do you know how long I waited after you left the Dragon Territory? Every night I stared, and you never looked back. I thought my cutest daughter had tossed me aside like last season’s lantern!”

“Ahaha…” Lilith laughed dryly, sweat beading like dew. She remembered how she’d been neglecting things; the Star Canvas’s grievance had piled up like snowdrifts. So she bowed her head and apologized, obedient and small.

“Sorry. I really didn’t have time, and the setup wasn’t right.” She hugged her head, grasping at reasons like loose threads. “In Morris, I even tried to ask Elasha for their knowledge. In the end, I didn’t get it.”

“Forget it.” The Star Canvas smoothed her mood like a hand over silk. “You still haven’t answered me. Why are you watching me again?”

“Because I want to chase the truth of the world,” Lilith murmured, voice soft as a reed flute. “At Lamter’s Majestic Court, I heard you can ask gods for the world’s truth. But I worry no god would tell me. So I thought: if I dig up a taboo of equal weight, then the gods would gladly trade me the truth… right?”

“You’re such an idiot.” The Star Canvas sighed, rude as a breeze through an unlocked window. “Didn’t you inherit a shred of my earth-shaking wisdom? Looks like your other parent must be targeting the not-so-bright ones.”

Lilith’s protest rose like steam, but the goddess pressed on and sent it back down her throat.

“Have you thought why, even after meeting me, you still can’t see the Star Canvas in its true form? I’m the real Star Canvas, no counterfeit.”

“Um… because you aren’t showing your true face right now?” Lilith answered, blank as a white page.

“Because your foolish little brain can’t bear that much information.” The Star Canvas thwacked Lilith’s forehead with a crisp crack—like tapping a ripe melon on a market stall.

“Ow!” The Little White Dragon clutched her head, whining like a kettle. “Then what should I do?”

“Hmm…” The Star Canvas pinched her chin, weighing ideas like stars on a jeweler’s scale.

“How about you start by buttering me up?” she suggested, eyes bright as playful fireflies.

“Huh?” Lilith’s eyes went wide, round as coins.